


Dreamscrape

by CAPSING



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Disturbing Themes, M/M, Sad Ending, Unhealthy Relationships, everything is very vague and confusing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 22:45:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8420074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CAPSING/pseuds/CAPSING
Summary: All things eventually break. The human mind is no different.(Please read the warnings.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to [Jamborina](http://jamborina.tumblr.com/) for her beta work! ♥~  
> I've added a bit after, so any mistakes are my own.
> 
>  ***WARNING- PLEASE READ!***  
>  Despite the story being short, it deals with very heavy stuff. It's non-con, even if Sendak doesn’t force himself physically on Shiro, he abuses a situation in which Shiro can’t really consent. There’s self-harm, dehumanization, a sexual situation and character death, and it doesn’t end happily.  
> Set post-Voltron.
> 
> [Inspiration.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wJw5NzrLHz4) (yeah it's a song)

 

He doesn’t remember the last time he had a dream.

He doesn’t remember quite many things. He doesn’t care for most of them; for the blank spaces that appear whenever he tries to conjure an unusual thought; they’re a given fact and he accepts them like he accepts any other fact and a given in his life.

He does care about his lack of sleep, due to the displeased frown on Master’s face every time he wakes him up screaming or crying for no apparent reason.

The drugs that were meant to help him only made him sick, so he was cut off of them soon after. Despite that Master hadn’t told him anything, he knows it’s his fault for not trying hard enough to get rid of those visions that tear at his mind when he dares to let it slip beyond his control.

He doesn’t know what happens between the moment he closes his eyes and the moment they snap open; he doesn’t remember, though a part of him wishes he did; maybe if he’d remember, he’d know how to fix it.

* * *

 

There’s one exception. He does remember a woman.

Sometimes, she’s there, in the parts of his mind he can’t reach; she looks kind and so very sad, standing in an endless blooming field of green. The flowers around them are dark red, like they sprung from blood drops of fallen warriors, to commemorate their sacrifice; perishable tombstones for just the both of them to witness. Their silent grief reflects in the woman’s eyes, beneath pale white bangs that frame her long face.

She looks young, but her melancholy feels ancient.

He doesn’t know why she’s sad, or why he cares.

But then again, he doesn’t know much of anything.

 

 “ _Hold on_ ,” she pleads at him, reaching out. “ _We’re coming for you._ ”

Each time, he reaches out for her – but the visions always collapse around them before his fingertips even manage to brush at her outstretched hand.

She always disappears in horrid ways, screaming and screeching before she breaks apart, as the field is swallowed in a swirling wave of black; when he wakes up, her scream claws out of his own throat.

 _Hold on_ , her voice echoes in his head, but he never has anything to grasp in his mind; her words are empty like the feeling in his chest when he wakes. He tries to press himself closer, to make the scratchy ache stop – but no matter how much he tries, the warmth from Master’s body never quite manages to soothe it.

 

He grabs a fistful of fur in his hand, and holds on.

* * *

 

He only has one arm.

When Master goes away, he stares at the stump that grows from his right shoulder; he guesses it used to be an arm, too. There are discoloured lines around it, but there are plenty of those along his body, so it's not much proof.

He doesn’t get to see many people, but most of those he'd seen had two arms. Sometimes more.  

It doesn’t bother him; one arm is all he needs, even if it’s somewhat clumsy.

Master has one arm, as well.

It makes him happy, in a way, though he doesn’t know why.

 

Master can have two arms, when he wants to.

Sometimes, privately, he wishes he could have had an arm like Master’s, too, even if it's pointless.

* * *

 

Oftentimes, when he fucks him, Master tells him he was made for breeding.

 

It must be true, because he can’t think of any other reason he exists.

 

* * *

 

The woman has long flowing hair, so long she runs both of her hands through it as she marvels at the glowing silver of her mane.

His own hair is short – far too short to see which colour it is.

He gets the idea from Master’s own actions; he tugs at his hair until it comes loose, and he can bring it to his eyes and see which colour is it.

The first is black.

The second is black.

The ninth is white.

The tenth is black.

The eleventh is –

* * *

 

Master is _furious_.

 

 

He’s tied down as punishment, and though he’s not sure what he had done wrong, he doesn’t question it.

 

* * *

 

The field in his mind starts growing smaller.

It’s gradual; when it’s first been endless, he can make the ends of it, the darkness nipping at the edges of the horizon. Then it shrinks further, turning smaller and smaller as it leaves the earth behind it scorched black. It shrinks until the only green spot that remains is beneath the woman’s feet, a spot of sunshine that’s bound to expire.

“ _Hold on, Shiro,_ ” she begs at him desperately – and for a moment before she disappears in a flare of purple flames, screaming like a thousand white-hot pokers stab at each and every one of her pores – he almost asks her _why_.

* * *

 

He doesn’t leave the room.

He knows there are other things beyond the door; he smells them on Master’s body when he returns, not knowing what they are and which strings they’re trying to pull at his memories, only to find all the cords have been cut loose.

There isn’t anything for him out there, though.

Until there is.

Master leads him along the sterile hallways, and the floor beneath his bare feet is cold – unpleasantly different from the lush carpet in the room that tickles between his toes. He tries to keep up with the long strides of his Master’s, feeling muscles at his waist pull and his breath turning shorter, before they finally arrive into a dingy barred room.

For a heartbeat, his feet don’t follow through the open door.

It reeks.

There’s no windows, he realizes.

But he’s not sure what’s a window.

 

He blinks as his eye water, while trying to adjust to the dimly lit space. There’s a stranger kneeling on the ground, a person who looks like himself and the woman from the depths of his mind, though the person is much larger than either of them. His hair – a dull shade of black – hangs limply around his face, caked with dirt and grime.

It’s weird.

He didn’t know there were others like him.

The person’s skin, dark –like the woman’s, but unlike his own – is a canvas of violence, making him flinch back without knowing why.

 

The stranger stirs, looking up, and his throat clenches; his eyes are just like the woman’s. It’s not their colour or their shape, that’s distorted beneath puffed black skin around them – it’s that they look so sad. It’s all he can notice when Master’s voice carries around them, the words lost as he feels as if his chest is caving in.

“Shiro,” The stranger speaks in a hoarse voice, fractured, like his body. Master snarls and all he can do is watch as the person is thrown against one of the walls; the chain links follow and snap onto the surface, the sound both wet and clear, before the person crumples and falls.

He doesn’t know why his eyes burn, or why there are drops sliding down his cheeks.

He does know he doesn’t want to leave the room ever again.

* * *

 

The visions don’t stop after that, but the woman doesn’t appear in his mind anymore, gone from existing with her dying field with its morose flowers.

He’s making progress.

He’s getting better.

Yet–

 

He doesn’t know why he doesn’t feel any relief.

(But at least he doesn’t have to try and hold on anymore.)

* * *

 

Not remembering is not the same as not knowing, and he knows about _names_.

He doesn’t have one, but it doesn’t matter; Master calls him ‘ _pet_ ’, when he calls him at all, and he rarely interacts with anyone else. When Master does have company, they ignore him completely, as if he’s not even there.

They’re not permitted to breed him, he guesses, so there’s no reason for them to approach him.

 

Still, the word nags at the back of his head, keeps clutching at the back of his tongue, trying to climb out of his throat and to roll out of his mouth.

It’s exhausting to keep dismissing it.

So when he grows too tired with it, he doesn’t.

 

“Master,” he speaks as they lay together, secured beneath Master’s immense bulk of muscles and strength; he immediately gets his full attention (after all, he doesn’t speak that much).

“What’s a ‘Shiro’?”

A claw traces gently against his cheek as Master studies his face; he told him once his dark eyes are positively exquisite, but for some reason, the memory isn’t offering any comfort as Master’s gaze bores down at him, sending shivers down his spine.

“Nothing,” his Master answers, and the yellow of his eyes pulls him in like quicksand; he doesn’t even notice when the first drop of blood peeks out from between the torn pieces of his skin.

It barely stings.

“Nothing at all.”

* * *

 

He opens his legs; it comes naturally to him, as his Master settles between them like he had done countless times before. Still, there’s a weight in his chest even though Master isn’t pressing down on him.

“Master,” he almost asks, unsure.

“What is it?” The commander asks above him, his eyes as sharp as his claws.

“I –“ he halts, at loss; he doesn’t know what he wants to ask, or what’s different, this time. “I’m tired.” He tries.

He squirms beneath Master’s frown, and it feels like the weight is building until it’d crush him completely – yet Master simply rolls off of him with a huff and tucks him to his chest.

“Sleep, then.”

 

And the weight is gone.

* * *

 

After a time, he can’t remember the sound of her agonized screams.

He tries, but he can’t remember her face.

 

He doesn’t know why it bothers him.

He tugs at his hair, but not too hard.

He doesn’t want to pull it out.

(Master would get mad.)

* * *

 

He wakes up sobbing into Master’s chest.

“Another one?” Master asks, voice soft like the fur beneath his cheek.

He nods, curling his knees up as his Master pulls him close.

“Just forget about them.”

 

 

And eventually, he does.            

**Author's Note:**

> [Whoops](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YAuIKzEmhh0). 
> 
> Comments are the fuzzy scarves that keep me warm in cold dark nights ♥


End file.
